


Flemish Border, 4 April 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One At War [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (not in a fun way), Ambition, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Angst, Awkwardness, Battle, Battlefield, Beating A Hasty Retreat, Biting, Blasphemy, Blindfolds, Body Language, Brotherhood, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Differences, Clothed Sex, Compassionate Brothers-At-Arms, Conflict, Correspondence, Derogatory Language, Despair, Dreams and Nightmares, Embedded Images, Español | Spanish, Espionage, Established Relationship, Explosions, Explosives, Franco-Spanish War, Frottage, Good Intentions, Guns, Implied Threat of Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loneliness, Love Bites, M/M, Male Slash, Male Solo, Masturbation, Memories, Microexpressions, Musketeers actually using muskets, Orgasm, Outdoor Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Secret Relationship, Shame, Shooting, Shooting Guns, Silence, Strategy & Tactics, Swearing, Swordfighting, Third Wheel, Threats of Violence, Torture, War, Wartime, Xenophobia, are we the bad guys?, is quoting my own fanfic incredibly self-indulgent? heigh-ho..., warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-29 04:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: He feels a heavy boot in the middle of his back and, as he gets his hands under him, starts to push up, he feels a sword point in the back of his neck.“You know,” says a conversational voice in slow, thickly accented French, “I’m in a terrible mood. It’s not made any better by not knowing how many of the rest of my brothers are left alive. How do you think I should serve you?”*Another instalment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	1. Dawn - The Road

**Author's Note:**

> Non-English passages will have hover-over text translations, as well as translations in the end notes.
> 
> Rating is for later chapters.

D’Artagnan writhes backwards into the dip, stares at them both.

Athos raises his eyebrows on a forward slant of head: _Well?_

D’Artagnan huffs a short breath out through his nose, eyes flat, compresses his lips, looks up, holds his hand up, fingers spread, then pulses it in the air towards them three times. _Fifteen._

Porthos’s expression blurs and he turns his head with a clench of face. _Bollocks_.

Athos stares at D’Artagnan. _You’re sure_.

D’Artagnan just cocks his head to one side, eyes hooded, mouth slanted.

Athos’s eyes wander down briefly, then back up. He slants an eyebrow. _Damn_.

 _Yep_.

Porthos turns to face them. They look. He flicks his eyebrows. _What next?_

He and d’Artagnan turn to Athos. It’s not even that subtle. He fights against the inevitable slump, ringing himself with steel. There’ll be time for that later. Maybe a few… days later.

He questions d’Artagnan further with a touch of mime: _Pikes?_

_None._

_Muskets?_

_Three. Probably. And two crossbows. I think._

_Come on, do better._

_What –_ you _want to go up there? Or_ him?

_Fuck off. Pistols?_

D’Artagnan turns towards him. _Nine_.

Athos frowns, waves him back towards him. _What are the others carrying?_

 _Nothing._ He thinks. Shrugs. Mimes musket shooting, shakes his head. Mimes pistol shooting, shakes his head. Mimes sword-fighting, shakes his head. Screws his face up to one side wildly, shrugs again. Athos interprets this as: _Not soldiers?_

_Hmm._

Porthos taps d’Artagnan on the arm, mimes palming a weight then throwing it, torso briefly tucking into a hunch. _Bombs?_

They watch d’Artagnan’s gaze scanning over his memory, sweeping around the scene in front of his inner vision. His eyes narrow, he looks up. _No._ Finger to his lips and a point back over the lip of the hollow, a flattening of the eyes, a hunched peer over an imaginary musket barrel. _They want to be quiet._

Athos sits back on his haunches. _So this_ is _an ambuscade. Damn. Right._ He looks around. _All right, gentlemen. What do we have? Shot?_

Porthos pats his belt, holds up ten fingers. Points to his powder horn, waggles his hand side to side, hold up eight.

D’Artagnan pulls a face. Pats his belt, holds up five fingers. Points to his powder horn. _About seven shots, maybe eight._

They looks at Athos. _Ten_. He looks to Porthos. _Bombs?_

Porthos grins mirthlessly. Holds two fingers up. D’Artagnan manages to swerve his expression of admiration into a sarcastic moue indicating that Porthos is finally useful for something. He hoists both fingers in the manner of an Englishman, then flicks one down to make a more familiar gesture.

D’Artagnan beckons on a drawing up of his torso. _Come on then, big man_. Athos rolls his eyes and they grin at him, lightened by two bombs. He fishes out his pocket watch and snarls lightly at it. They sober immediately. _How long?_

Athos shakes his head, heeling down panic. _One hour. Or a half hour. Depends on…_ Too many factors. He clenches his jaw. Here’s the pinch point: which tactic holds the greater chance of success? He elects to take the harder but more certain route, sketches out his intentions with a few spare gestures, keeps them all busy for as long as possible, so as to keep anxious analysis at bay.

Thirty minutes later d’Artagnan is sliding into the hollow again, face grimly set and eyes wide. _Party of horsemen approaching. Five to ten minutes away._ No-one questions him; d’Artagnan’s eyesight is easily better than theirs, as is Athos’s hearing. Porthos jams his ear to the ground, straightens, shrugs. They can faintly hear the men over the soft ridge readying themselves. They all roll shoulders and stretch legs and arms, work waiting kinks out of their necks, loosen swords in sheaths. Porthos lays his two bombs on the ground next to him.

D’Artagnan looks over to Athos, who nods. He nods back and hefts the primed musket with a difficult expression. Can’t be helped. The best long-range shot needs to provide cover fire. If there’s ever a time Athos has been tempted to curse him… but there’s no point, really, is there? He spares a moment, instead, to hope he is enjoying a happier life.

He puts a gloved hand out flat in front of him. Porthos claps his own on top, followed a moment later by d’Artagnan’s. They look each other in the eye and withdraw on a whisper of leather. 

He holds up a forefinger. They become absolutely focused. He nods at Porthos, holding up all his fingers

_Five._

Porthos strikes a light to the fuse of one bomb until it starts to fizzle.

_Four._

He sparks at the next, cursing silently and coaxing it with gentle puffs.

_Three._

D’Artagnan strikes his own spark, while Porthos strives at his, to light the musket’s fuse.

_Two._

He squirms up the slope with the gun in his arms to where they’ve laid the rest of their ammunition just this side of the ridge. He’s already given one of his pistols to Athos.

_One._

Porthos nods to Athos and, in swift succession, lobs both bombs high to land in the midst of the Spanish below. D’Artagnan ducks, face turned away.

The ridge shields them from the blast, and they scramble up to join d’Artagnan, who’s just made his first shot into the cursing, bellowing, flailing smoke and is reloading rapidly. Athos and Porthos flatten themselves and peer over, each taking two considered pistol shots as targets present themselves before reloading themselves. D’Artagnan fires again. They all turn and slide down a couple of feet, backs to the slope as the remaining enemy send a seemingly blind set of shots their way. D’Artagnan starts to reload again.

Porthos and d’Artagnan eye Athos from either side. He appears to be counting. A swift glance to each and they slide up again into the reloading quiet, d’Artagnan lying belly-down on the top as the other two scramble down into the settling dust, firing and dropping, drawing swords.

The surviving Spanish cast their guns down with various curses, drawing their own blades. Porthos drops one without stopping, shoulder-charges another to the ground and stabs him through the chest, ducks a wild overarm blow from something like a cutlass, moves to gut him, and has to jink back hard from another broad blade. The man is bleeding from at least one shrapnel wound and snarling like a maniac. Porthos revises his odds downwards, backs up the slope a few steps and kicks out hard at his torso. The man _oof_ s in surprise and goes down, but only to one knee, both weapons still in hand. Porthos makes his next strike a straight stab through the throat and withdraws as the man keels over sideways in a welter of blood. He feels the next blow across the top of his arm and turns to face whoever’s stupid enough to attempt a cut across half-armour. Nothing. Athos is screaming something through the ragged smoke. He runs towards him and a hand grabs him by the hip and bears him to the ground. He writhes and kicks, lands at least one left-handed punch, struggling to bring his sword into play.

“Stay still, you idiot.”

“Sorry.” He half-sits and sheathes his blade awkwardly. “Nice day for it.” The freshening wind is blowing the fumes away into a blue sky.

Another blow, this time a foot to the right of his head. They curse and roll away as one.

“D’Artagnan!” shouts Athos. “Kindly deal with that gunman, will you?!”

His muffled voice eddies back to them.

“What did he say?”

“‘On it!’, I believe.”

“Right.” He lets his head drop to the turf. “He must be quite far off.” The sound of the retort had been faint – only heard in retrospect.

“A good two hundred yards at least.” His weight withdraws. “Are you badly hurt?”

He looks over at him in surprise. “Fine. Why?” He looks down himself. “Oh. No, it’s fine.”

“Any left alive?”

“Apart from shooter-boy?”

Another _thup_ as the aforementioned enemy lands another shot, and this time it’s half a foot away.

“He’s getting better.”

“Go, move now.”

He scrambles to his feet, runs in ragged weaves and ducks behind a rock.

“Everything all right down there?”

“Yes!” calls Athos from behind a different outcrop. “It’s going fantastically, d’Artagnan! In the meantime, I thought I gave you an order!”

“I’m doing my best! I’m not A… a miracle worker!”

Porthos closes his eyes for a moment, opens them on a scuffling sound just behind him. He slews around to see a curved back sliding down out of the wreckage of the Spanish ambuscade. He swings his head to Athos, who just looks at him. _It’s up to you._

_I’ve got this._

Athos, curse his hide, stands and strides into the open, between the shooter and Porthos.

Okay, go. Come on, pup.

Up on the ridge, d’Artagnan has finished ramming his shot home. _Right_ , he thinks. Come on.

Down in the hollow, Athos walks slowly forward, sword in hand, hair swinging this way and that as the wind takes it.

Porthos scrambles as quietly as he can manage. The man ahead of him is moving remarkably quickly and with very little sound, still hunched forward, despite now being in the lee of the hill.

The Spaniard skirts a patch of scree, hand to the rock beside him, and Porthos thinks: gotcha.

 _Breathe into it_ , murmurs a memory into d’Artagnan’s right ear. _You can see his musket. All you need to do is hit it._

It’s the whole width of the defile away. That’s nearly a quarter of a mile.

_And you’re easily capable of this. If you can see it, you can hit it. The sun’s in your favour. The wind’s trickier, but not insurmountable. Your weapon has an effective range of 1000 yards, deadly within 400 yards. His is heavier – deadly to 600 yards, but it’s less manoeuvrable._

Which… means… right.

He sights, breathes, closes his eyes, pictures the perfect shot, breathes, inserts the match, breathes, fires.

_Yes!_

Now the gamble.

D’Artagnan reloads the musket as fast as he’s ever done anything in his life before, lifts it over his shoulder, rises, smouldering match between his teeth, and starts to run down the hill.

“D’Artagnan! _No!_ ”

The scarpering Spaniard and Porthos both turn their heads at the cry, and Porthos curses as the man looks right at him.

Fine. Time for a gamble. He rises to his feet.

There’s the sound of a shot.

Porthos drops as the man starts to run, slides down the patch of scree on his feet, leaning back on his left hand, rolls the last few feet, jumps up, and grabs the man by the scruff of the neck. The Spaniard kicks backwards and he takes it on the knee, drops and slams the man to the ground. They tumble together down the slope for a further few feet.

The French soldier gains his feet first. As the man, wheezing slightly, starts to rise, he feels a heavy boot in the middle of his back and, as he gets his hands under him, starts to push up, he feels a sword point in the back of his neck.

“You know,” says a conversational voice from the other side of the sword in slow, thickly accented French – Parisian, is his guess, “I’m in a terrible mood. It’s not made any better by not knowing how many of the rest of my brothers are left alive. How do you think I should serve you?” Then, for good measure, he adds, haltingly, accent barely altered: “Estoy… inflamado. Estoy hambre. Mi espada es más larga que mi… paciencia.”

He lets the tension out of his shoulders and drops to cover his satchel.

“Wise decision.”

There’s shouting above them, torn by the wind so that he cannot make out which language it’s in. The foot above him shifts, but maintains its pinning force.

They wait, the pair of them, grass and gorse rustling in the pretty breeze until they hear a French voice shouting “Porthos!”

“Down here!”

“You all right?”

“Just about.”

“What have you got there?”

“Spaniard.”

“Don’t kill him!”

“Fine!” His voice comes closer, the foot pressing harder. “Tu día fortunado, amigo.”

“ _Su!_ ” he coughs, reflexively.

“I don’t think so, sunshine.”

The other soldiers approach in a teetering scramble of hard-worn leathers and wind-tossed hair. One is clearly about ten years younger than the others, and has powder marks up one side of his copper-brown face. The older one has Northern eyes in a wintry, blood-splashed expression and the unmistakable air of command. This one gestures for ‘Porthos’ to let him up. He’s hauled to his feet to face the commander, one heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Usted es un prisionero. Ven con nosotros, señor.” The tone is clipped and carefully paced, the accent passable. The ice-eyed man clearly takes no pleasure in this victory. As he’s pushed forward, his hands tighten reflexively on his bag. “Take that off him,” says the commander, carelessly, and his captor rips it from his grip and tosses it to the younger man.

“Let’s see what you’ve been protecting so valiantly,” sneers the Moorish-looking one.

The shooter unfastens it and peers inside, taps their leader immediately, and gestures for him to view the contents for himself.

The commander’s face tightens a miniscule fraction. He swings his hardening gaze up to him and says: “This makes things very different, doesn’t it?”

He breathes deeply and pushes the panic sideways. “Señor?”

He looks weary. “Don’t try that, please. It’ll be quicker and easier for all of us if you–”

“No hablo frances, señor!” he gabbles. The big one shakes him, hard.

“And yet… I find that oddly hard to believe.” He breathes in sharply through his nose, expressionless. “D’Artagnan?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Please go and tell the marshals’ party that they can pass safely now, and congratulate their leader from me on his quick action in keeping them safe.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Porthos?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Please escort our friend here back to camp. We’ll need to question him.”

“The usual route, Captain?”

“Yes please.”

“Here,” says the big man to the younger one. “I’ll take that.” He reaches out and casually hefts the satchel, looping the strap over his head. The young man nods and scampers down the hill to curve around onto the road where the French marshals and other high command waits out of gunshot.

The others haul him up the hill to where the ambush party lie dead or dying. Porthos keeps a grip on him as the captain slowly climbs the ridge to collect the rest of their gear. Only enough for three men, he sees.

As they set off together he asks, seemingly unable to help himself: “Quién eres vosotros?!

“Somos Mosqueteros,” the leader replies, seemingly absently. He turns with a hard light in his eyes as they come into sight of their horses, a half mile distant. “Somos los Mosqueteros del Rey.” And that is all anyone says to him until they reach the French camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish is almost certainly bad. I used Google Translate and I also wanted Athos (and Porthos especially) to be using dubious constructions where possible. It would have been much more convenient for me if France had gone to war with a different country, but there we have it… If there are ways I can improve it, especially for the native speaker, _please_ let me know!
> 
> " _Estoy… inflamado. Estoy hambre. Mi espada es más larga que mi… paciencia._" = " I am… angry. I am hungry. My sword is longer than my… patience."
> 
> " _Tu día fortunado, amigo._" = " Your* lucky day, friend." *to add insult to injury, Porthos is using the informal singular form of "your"
> 
> " _Su!_" = " You!" singular formal
> 
> " _Usted es un prisionero. Ven con nosotros, señor._" = " You** are a prisoner. Come with us, sir." **Athos uses the singular formal here. At least, I fucking hope he does.
> 
> " _Señor?_" = " Sir?"
> 
> " _No hablo frances, señor!_" = " I don’t speak French, sir!"
> 
> " _Quién eres vosotros?!_" = " Who are you?!"
> 
> " _Somos Mosqueteros._" = " We are Musketeers."
> 
> " _Somos los Mosqueteros del Rey._" = " We are The King’s Musketeers."


	2. Late Morning - French War Camp

“Water,” says d’Artagnan, setting it down. “And wine.”

He curls his lip in response.

Porthos stirs in his corner behind Athos’s left shoulder. “What’s wrong, then?”

The Spaniard silently extends the curl into a full sneer, along with a fine lift of one eyebrow.

Athos just blinks and says: “As you wish.” He pours a cup of each, takes a sip from both cups and pushes them to the middle of the table. He then pours his own water in an oddly focused fashion, and drinks down half the cup.

“It’s not poisoned,” says d’Artagnan, softly. Athos merely lifts his eyebrows briefly, keeping his gaze on the prisoner.

The man lifts the cup of water, drinks a little, then reaches and pushes the wine back towards Athos with his fingertips. “Vino francés,” he enunciates deliberately, letting his gaze slip to Porthos and his scorn widen.

Porthos stands explosively, chair clattering. D’Artagnan extends an open palm and a soft expression towards him as he takes a half-step forward, arms curling at his side.

“Controlar a su perro!”

Athos’s eyes flinch narrower for a moment, and he sighs. “I think I can guess what that means. It’s disappointing:” he continues. “you appear to be an educated man,” D’Artagnan is persuading Porthos back into his chair with a gentle palm on his chest and soft sounds, “so I would assume that you would understand how this is to go.” He takes a long breath. “I’ll ask you again, and then maybe, depending on how you answer, we’ll take some lunch and leave you to think about things.” He takes a breath on a half-smile. “So, señor, the three questions again: What is your name? Who do you work for? How did you get hold of the letters?”

“No hablo frances, señor…”

“So how did you read the letters in your bag?”

Silence.

“How did you negotiate with the traitor who gave them to you, or trick your way into the camp to steal them without any French? Without _good_ French? Men like you speak half a dozen languages. I would be astonished if you did not have French, Italian, English, German, and Flemish at your fingertips. I would wager that you can write in Latin and Greek to boot, even that you having a passing familiarity with the Moorish tongue.” He points. “Those are not a soldier’s hands. They are not a tradesman’s hands or a farmer’s hands.” He points again. “Those shoulders never hoicked a pedlar’s pack over two hundred miles of oh… Oh, they _did_.” His eyes flicker down his body again. “Good cover. For all I know, you’ve been a musician, a travelling doctor, a mendicant pilgrim complete with medals, even a scholar…” His eyes narrow and he leans forward. “Doctor and scholar.” He leans back. “This one has a high opinion of himself, gentlemen,” he calls.

Porthos grunts a kind of laugh. D’Artagnan blinks, gazes unhappily at their prisoner, who looks a great deal less confident than he did five minutes earlier.

“If you don’t tell me,” says Athos. “I will find out anyway. But it will take longer, and I will be feeling a lot less generous of spirit by the end.”

“Y luego me mátaras, ya sea o no…”

The Captain frowns. Twists in his chair back towards Porthos. “‘Mátaras?’”

The big man, all-but lost to the gloom at the back of the otherwise bare tent, shrugs. He looks both bored and mildly disgusted.

“Kill,” says d’Artagnan, softly, from his other side. They look at him. “Like mátalos?” He shrugs.

“Hmm?” They’ve all heard that shouted at or about them. Athos turns back to the Spaniard, who returns a stony expression as good as any confirmation. “Not necessarily. We may well put you to work instead as an indentured man. Keep you as hostage in case you’re important. Either way: keep you from being useful to Spain. Either way: we’d need to be convinced of your importance. More precisely: _I_ need to be convinced of your importance.”

The captain gazes at him, expression still quiet. He is drawn to memory: visiting the north coast of Ireland on a mission to investigate and, if necessary, encourage the issues between Catholics and Protestants there. It had been summer, and the sun in that cold, wet, unsettlingly verdant land had taken an age to set. One evening, he’d watched the sky turn a thousand shades of blue and green, stippled with cloud, arching over stones older than anything he’d ever seen. He’d turned towards the shore and, for long moments, he’d been unable to tell where sea ended and sky began. The captain contains that stillness, his eyes those colours, in all of him that same confounding blend of sky, sea, and ancient rock.

What he presents to the French in turn is a mask of mild disdain.

“You are carrying letters in French between the commanders of this side of the war,” the captain is saying. “Letters I happen to know _for a fact_ were encoded before they were sent. Somehow, you have possession of plain versions. Either you obtained the key and translated these yourself, someone translated these for you, or you obtained the decoded versions after they arrived. Or the uncoded before they were sent.”

“Before,” comes the big one’s voice.

“I concur.”

He’s beginning to feel the traces of real fear. His face is a rock – his control his weapon and his armour for many years. For them to see…

And then _he_ sees. “I won’t tell you what you need to know,” he says, deciding all at once.

A flicker of smile. “Maybe not willingly,” he concedes.

“Captain,” he says, sitting back in his chair, “we both know you don’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done.”

The smile becomes sad for a moment. The Captain stands. “Maybe not.”

He beckons d’Artagnan. “Time to take a walk, I think.” He moves towards the entrance. Without turning, he says: “Try to make less of a mess this time.”

As they leave the other one stands, stretches, strolls forward, props his fists on the table, leans into his space. “On the other hand,” he says, “he has me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Spanish. Again: let me know if I can improve it!
> 
> " _Controlar a su perro!_" = " Control your dog!"
> 
> " _No hablo frances, señor…_" = " I don’t speak French, sir…"
> 
> " _Y luego me mátaras, ya sea o no…_" = " And then you will kill me, whether or not…"
> 
> The next two chapters are darker than I usually write. Just so you’re aware.


	3. Midday - French War Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning (spoiler, so skip if you don’t want it): ~~aftermath of being tied up and beaten; generally insulting/ derogatory language.~~
> 
> Skip this and the next chapter if you’d prefer some angsty smut/ fluff without knowing the explicit reason for the angst.

Hands. Hands and voices. One is all knots, the other flowing lines of…

He coughs. Turns, spits on the ground. He doesn’t need to be able to see it to know that it’ll be red.

“Filthy fucking Spanish dog…”

“It’s okay. Just… Hey! Just, just leave him be a minute, will you?”

Hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Do you want some water?”

He manages to nod.

“Okay, I’m going to put my hand on the back of your neck to steady you, then the cup’s coming up to your lips, okay?”

“Hmmnh.”

Cool metal and the gentle sway of liquid across the lip. It hurts. He hurts. But he has beginning and end to it now, starting with the firm hand cupping the back of his neck and the curve of pewter and water at his mouth. Three swallows in and his throat locks. He jerks, spilling water; the hand and the metal duck away gracefully. It strikes him, suddenly, as unbearable that he can’t dry his chin, not even on his shoulder.

“I’ve got a cloth,” says the soft voice. “Would you like me to wipe your mouth?”

“Hnnyes.” And there’s a hand on his shoulder and fabric at his lips, dabbing softly underneath his nose as well, and he silently blesses him for that.

“There you go.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, that’s okay,” and he sounds a little awkward.

“For fuck’s sake, d’Artagnan…”

“Listen, Porthos, why don’t you take a break, hm? Get some fresh air.”

“Sure. Anything to get away from the fucking stench of it.”

Movement, a creak-swish of light, and quiet, apart from the other’s breathing.

“Are you alright…? Okay, that’s a terrible question. But. Would you like me to remove the blindfold?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay, I’m just going to touch the sides of your face, pull the cloth up… There. Take a moment, open them slowly.”

His vision swims, and into it comes the worried face of the younger one. D’Artagnan. He smiles uncertainly. “Okay?”

“Mmh.” He blinks a couple more times, focus resharpening. “Yes. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Would you like some more water? Or wine?”

“Wine. Please.”

D’Artagnan lifts the cup he rejected earlier, peers into it, makes a faint tutting sound, goes to the entrance, tips it out, comes back and pours him a fresh measure. He catches his eye, slowly tastes a little of it, then tilts it slightly towards him. “Yes?”

He nods.

“Alright – same as before. Hand on the back of the neck, cup to your lips, you show me how fast you want to go. Okay?”

“Yes.”

He drinks, draws strength from it, cheap and sour though it is. He manages about half the cup, then twists his head away from it slightly on a soft sound. Hands and cup drop away. The back of his neck feels cold.

“That’s better – your eyes look sharper.”

Under the blood that’s surely oozing, the swelling on one side of his face. Sure. He rolls his neck and shoulders as best he can, stretches his legs, settles, stares.

“Legs alright?”

He grunts. “Just stiff.”

“Shoulders can’t be too comfortable.”

He shrugs. “Not bad, really.”

“How are your hands?”

He cuts his eyes sideways at him.

“Well, fair enough,” he says on a slight chuckle. “But will you let me check them?”

“Can’t you untie me?” It’s always worth a shot.

“I’d really like to,” he says, honest regret ringing through him. “It’s just. I can’t.”

“It’s all right,” he tells him. “Just check them.”

D’Artagnan moves out of his vision and behind him. A whisper and creak of cloth and leather. His voice, lower, says: “Wiggle your fingers for me?”

He does, feels the stiffness of enforced stillness and where they’re swelling a little against the rope, breathes a little easier to know they’re still his.

“I’m going to touch them now – check everything’s okay. Okay?”

“Yes.”

A gentle touch skimming the length of each digit, and a swift check where the strands dig into his wrists and palms. The Moor has tied him like an expert. Anger and shame flood through him on a wash of heat he is helpless to prevent. The lifting and easing of the pressure each time lets blood tingle through his hands and he catches his breath as a hundred soft needles briefly press their message of life home.

Heat rises behind and above him. “Seems all right. You know – as much as it can be.”

He walks around to the other side of the table, gestures at the chair, which was shunted to one side the last time the other stood out of it. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Uh. Of course. Go ahead.”

He pulls it in to sit down directly opposite. “Um. My name’s d’Artagnan. Sorry. Um. You probably know that already.” He fiddles with the cup his captain has left behind.

He looks up on a small, sideways smile that slants across a worried, handsome face that even war hasn’t so much as dented yet, by the look of it. His skin is the copper-brown of a particular Andalusian he once knew. He’s willing to bet the boy rides like a centaur, and shoots like one to boot. He finds he can’t bear the thought of battle souring this one, cracking and brutalising his sunny smoothness, and he closes his eyes for a long moment, opens them, finds himself saying: “Aritza.”

“Your name?”

He makes a tiny, upwards nod.

“Señor Aritza.” A small bow of the head. “I’m honoured.”

They share a smile for the absurdity of all this.

“Do you like being a soldier, d’Artagnan?”

His eyebrows flick, startled. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

“But not long realised, I think.”

“No – I–” he scrubs his hand along the back of his neck, face cast down to the table. “I was raised a farmer. In Gascony. Do you know where that is?”

“South…” his voice crackles and he clears it, swallows. “South of France.”

“That’s right.” He smiles – small and wistful. “It’s very beautiful there, but…”

“It wasn’t your life.”

“No.” A slightly broader smile. “No, I dreamed of swords and adventures.”

“And war?”

“Yes. I…” his face clouds again, “not like… like this, though.”

“Ah.”

“I– I should see what I can do about getting you some food.”

“There’s no… no rush…”

“Okay…”


	4. Afternoon - French War Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The treatment of the Spanish prisoner is more explicitly articulated here. Again, feel free to skip over this and wait until Monday for something more angsty but a lot more fluffy.
> 
> The text of the embedded image is in the end notes

Flap, crackle.

“Troop movements along the border.”

Flap, crackle.

“Summons for reserves.”

Flap, crackle.

“Armament supply lines.”

Flap, crackle.

“Food shipments.”

Flap, crackle, hiss.

“And the one that brings us together today – the timing and route of the marshals’ party to the Flemish border.”

Flap, crackle, hiss, creak.

“You understand, don’t you, that being found in possession of these _by themselves_ guarantees you a hanging?”

“Mmm. Mm-hmm.”

“And that, in fact, the thing that will extend your life is the sharing of information. The answering of three questions.”

“And you. You. What _you_ don’t understand. Hmm. What you don’t understand, _Captain_ , is that. That. That my, hmmmy loyalty to my country is at least as great as you to yours. Yours to your own.”

“I’m not asking you to betray your country, señor. I’m asking you to give up the traitor within our midst that we may deal with him accordingly. These despatches are over a period of weeks and in a variety of different hands – this one here,” fwish, crackle, “in the hand of our own marshal.” He gazes at Aritza. “This goes far deeper than any man can allow, in all conscience. God knows I’ve taken part in my share of espionage, but this – this is the pit of dishonour. Someone is selling other people’s lives, from the rawest foot soldier going short on food and decent weapons to the marshals who were to be fired on in ambuscade today, without a chance to defend themselves, with you looking on to report back.”

He stares at Aritza, who is struggling, for the first time in too many years, to maintain eye contact, cocks his head to one side. “Tell me his name.”

“No.”

He sighs. “Porthos.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Break his fingers.”

A snarl of laughter. “Yes, Captain.”

Those big hands slide down his arms. He hears his breathing come closer as he bends forward and reaches. Pressure on his little finger builds slowly until he’s feeling the stretch of it over his other hand. A thumb which feels far too large braces against the side of hand and–

“No!”

“D’Artagnan?!”

“No, just…”

“What?”

“Not his fingers. It’s… it’s inhumane.”

The Captain looks weary, frowning into the digits pinching the skin above his nose. A bark of laughter hot and damp against his neck. “‘In _humane_ ’. That’s a good one, eh?” He shakes him.

D’Artagnan’s eyes are enormous, his face dropped open into horror. They catch his and…

He feels his heart hammering, a thin whine high in his chest. The Moor releases his little finger but reaches instead for his index finger, adding a twisting kind of pressure. He feels his breathing hitch. D’Artagnan’s brows pull together at what he’s clearly seeing in his face.

The pinch and pressure are building. He desperately tries to maintain eye contact with d’Artagnan, who mouths _Please_.

“Up to you,” says the Captain mildly, gazing at Aritza.

The pressure shifts, he hears a deep breath go in as the fingers against his tense and–

“Stop.”

“What’s that?”

“Stop, please. I’ll. I. I’ll tell you.”

A disappointed kind of huff from the brute, who relinquishes his hand after a further squeeze, giving him a kind of pummel between the shoulderblades that rocks him forward. He clenches his fingers over and over again, reaches back the thumb of the left to stroke the little of the right over and over. Still intact. Still his.

“Very well,” says the captain as the other moves around to sit behind him again. Out of his sightline and to his other side d’Artagnan’s eyes close for a long blink, shoulders slumping. He opens his eyes to give the faintest kind of smile at Aritza.

The Captain’s eyebrows flick again, and he draws a blank leaf to him, dips a quill. “Name, señor?”

He takes a deep breath. “Manuel Aritza.”

*

They watch him being led away to the prisoner quarters. D’Artagnan works his shoulders and neck, tilts his face back into the sun. Athos eyes him sidelong. “All right?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes.”

“Well, you were right about his hands being key.”

“Hm. Out of interest, what would you have done if that hadn’t worked?”

Athos’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare above a curl of lip. His jaw bunches. He rolls his shoulders, scratches between his brows. “For a man like that,” he says, slowly, after a while. “his looks would be very important…”

A grunt to their right. Porthos looks up from where he’s sat on the ground against the tent they’ve been using for the interrogation, arms propped across his drawn-up knees, knuckles tight and raw. “He was no oil painting.”

“Perhaps not, but smooth features like his would allow him access to any role from pedlar to travelling physician to palace servant.”

“Whereas a scar across the eye…” adds Porthos. He tries to smile up at them, but it looks as though he’s swilling something bitter around his mouth, and his lips and nose twitch.

“You did very well,” says Athos, softly. He turns to d’Artagnan. “You both did.”

D’Artagnan scrubs his hands over his face and stares away across the encampment. “What now?”

“For us or for him?” Athos’s voice is still very gentle.

A look like grief chases itself briefly across d’Artagnan’s face. “Him, then.”

“He’ll be transferred to Paris with the others soon enough.”

“Will he hang?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. That clerk, however. If they find proof…”

They’re silent for a moment.

“And us?”

“I don’t know about you,” says Porthos, “but I want to get on the outside of a big drink and a big meal. In whichever order they come. After I’ve scrubbed myself.”

“Dirty business,” agrees d’Artagnan, turning away so that Porthos can’t see the soft, grieving look for the part he forced himself to play. “If–” he looks at Athos.

“Yes, you’re dismissed.”

“You?”

“I need to write up some notes and then I’ll join you.”

D’Artagnan nods, steps across him to reach down a hand to Porthos who looks startled, then seizes it to pull himself up. “I tell you what, pup.” He shakes his head. “This ain’t how I wanted to spend today.”

“Me neither.” He claps him on the back. “Let’s go stuff ourselves.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

He watches them go, walks, stiff-legged, up the hill, lets himself into the tent they share, makes his way over to the high table and leans on it, just letting himself tremble.

There is a letter he keeps restarting to Treville. Today it will read:

As ever, he burns the message, written straight into code for good measure, extremely thoroughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Text of Athos’s note to Treville (well, it’s a diary entry, really, but still…):
> 
> And somehow, you neglected to mention the element of command where not only do I enjoin the men under my care to use all the best parts of themselves (courage, imagination, inventiveness, loyalty, strength, endurance) in service of their country, knowing that this may, at any point, bring them to their deaths, but also that they dredge up the worst impulses to hand and use those too. Not only rage and pride and hatred for those from another country, but deceit, spite, and cruelty – petty and grand, summoning them to brutalise themselves.
> 
> I confess: I struggle to find honour in this. I may wrestle, even now, with the notion of a loving God, or any God at all, but I know that this work tarnishes their souls. I cannot see a clear path to bringing them back to themselves, even when we are successful – especially when we are successful.
> 
> And yet I will continue, subsume my own soul and care for them in service of my country, my King. It is all I can do.


	5. Sunset - French War Camp

He’s explaining something to d’Artagnan about playing the role of sympathiser. Something about Aramis. Porthos marches in, lifting a pistol, shouting: _What about_ my _part, then? Is he too_ good _to play the brutaliser?!_ and points the gun – all engraved and chased about the grip and barrel – at d’Artagnan’s head.

“ _Hnn!_ ” He awakes in a thrash of blanket, catching his elbow a crack. He can make out a cup and a plate of food on the table, carefully placed in his eyeline but just beyond flailing distance. He leans and snags both, blanket falling away. He sways on his stool briefly, and recovers, then hauls the bread to his mouth like he hasn’t seen any in weeks.

“You okay?”

“ _Jivz!_ ” The stool totters.

“Sorry!” A tousled head is peeking up from d’Artagnan’s bedroll. The tent is dusk-dark, the last of the setting sun barely making its way inside.

He swallows, takes a deep breath, hand to his chest, reeling his poise back in as his heart rate starts to clamber down.

“How long…?” he asks after a while.

“Couple of hours, I’d say.” He sits up, rubs his hands over his face and through his hair. “You were out of it when we got back, so probably longer. We couldn’t rouse you,” he adds.

Athos pushes his hand through his own hair. Gestures: “Thanks for the blanket.”

“That was Porthos, actually. And the food and water.” Of course – he needs to be… He pushes the thought away, hard.

“Did you sleep yourself?”

“As soon as I hit horizontal,” he says, rueful. He sits up further, and Athos can just about make out that he’s fully dressed, minus doublet and boots. They both stretch and roll their shoulders and necks, almost as one, catch each other’s eyes and smile, a little awkward still. Athos reaches for the food again.

“Is it all right?”

“Mmh, yes. Thank you.” Athos vaguely registers cheese, ham, beetroot, and beans on their way past. He chases it all down with water, thirsts for wine, longs, fiercely, like a punch to the chest, for brandy, pushes it away, even though there’s an insistent beat of _if this isn’t a special fucking occasion, I don’t know what is_. It should be a _happy_ occasion, he tells himself, in a kind of determined despair that the food has only partially dented after all.

Light footsteps stroll to his side, and he closes his eyes into the warmth blossoming there. There’s a short laugh.

“What?” He turns. D’Artagnan is composed of shadows and faint lines, a flash of teeth and glimmer of eyes.

“You’re all over beetroot…”

“Damn.” He scrubs at his beard with his hand. “How’s that?”

“Honestly? Worse.”

“Ach.”

“Hold on.”  He strikes sparks, lights a candle carefully. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

He fishes it out, feels sleep-heated fingers lift it from him, looks up to see a expression of abstraction as d’Artagnan brings it to his face, wipes slowly, scans critically, head cocked.

“If you’re going to tell me to spit on my hanky, for all the world like my nurse…”

He slants a wry moue at him, dips a corner in the water, smooths it over his mouth, cheeks, brow. He closes his eyes, leans into the touch with no subtlety at all, but opens them afterwards to look up and say “Really? All the way up there?”

“Best to be sure,” says d’Artagnan, a distant, musing tone to his voice, before leaning forward to press a kiss to his temple.

It’s chaste, and brotherly, and nothing he wouldn’t, or hasn’t, done with with Aramis, or Porthos, for that matter, but he rails for a moment, with an aching rage, for having to hide this _more_ of theirs. He tilts his head up and asks: “Where’s Porthos?”

He shrugs. “He wandered off after seeing to you. I confess: I was already halfway asleep myself. He could have told me that he was off to invade Sweden and I’d have just wished him luck.”

He chuffs a laugh at this, then sobers. “So we don’t know when…”

“No. And…” d’Artagnan’s gaze snaps to his, abruptly heated, “I really want…”

“Yes.” He feels his breath start to grow shallow, hears it echoed in his lover’s throat. He feels himself start to swell already, closes his eyes and clenches his fists against the edge of the table. The fighting has been intense up until the recent ceasefire, which lasts until Monday, never mind the work of today. They haven’t been distant, but they haven’t had time, and now his blood is running very hot.

He thinks furiously. “Would you like to come for a walk with me?”

“Where were you thinking?”

“Into… hm…” he forces his words and breathing slower, lower, “into the woods. Would you li–”

“Yes. Very much so. Now?”

“Now, yes, before it gets too dark, and then–”

“And then darkness.”

“Yes. Good,” he adds, unnecessarily. “Fetch your doublet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ugh.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound it. He presses the damp handkerchief into his grip. “Wipe your hands.”

“Yes, nurse.”

“That’s worse.”

“Is it, though?”

“ _Yes_.”

*

He walks in to hear Athos saying “–ving me looks like those and we won’t even make it to the perimeter…”

He tugs his hat down as d’Artagnan chuckles, and turns on ball of his foot to come up short against the sight of Porthos. “Ah.”

“Wh–? Oh,” says d’Artagnan, some of the light going out of his face.

He feels about as welcome as a leper in a high-class brothel.

“Hey,” he says, and knows he sounds exactly like he feels, and _he_ can barely stand the sound of it, so why should they–

“Hey,” says d’Artagnan. Athos nods.

He nods back, tightly, feels as though he’s full of words that he can’t even pick out the end of – a ravel of knots that clog his throat.

“Would you–” he manages just as d’Artagnan says: “We were just–”

“After you.”

“No, after. After you.”

“We were just going for a walk,” says d’Artagnan.

“Oh, right.” And he’s done enough playacting today for a lifetime – doesn’t have it in him to pretend not to be disappointed.

“I’m sorry. Did you, um…?”

“No,” he says, can feel his face is a wreck. Tries anyway. “No, you’re alright.”

“You’re not, however,” says Athos.

“Well,” he says. “Just, you know. Just a hell of a day.”

Athos just nods, gazes at him, all solemn.

“And I…” he gestures, “I didn’t want… tonight. That’s. That’s all. I’ll, um, I’ll…” points his thumb back at the entrance.

Athos closes his eyes, tilts his head back on a small, heavy chuff of breath.

D’Artagnan turns his head towards him, raises his eyebrows.

Athos opens those ice chip eyes, keeps them on Porthos while turning his face towards d’Artagnan with a sad little smile. “It’s his birthday.”

“Oh. Oh, hell. Sorry, P–”

“Nah, you’re alright. I’ll just–”

“Come with us.”

Athos closes his eyes again for a long blink. Opens them to say, only the slightest descending note to it: “Yes, come. I’d say we stay in for a jug or two, but I… I need the fresh air.”

“But–”

“No buts,” says his captain.

“One for all,” adds d’Artagnan. “Come on.”

Athos rolls his eyes fondly, reaches out to put his hand on Porthos’s shoulder. “I’d make it an order,” he says, “but that’s not what either of us wants tonight.”

He sighs, feels himself sagging, his face aiming towards a smile. “No, no. That’s. Yeah. Good. Thanks.”

He tugs him around. “Let’s go, then. D’Artagnan?”

“Sure.” He scrambles to extinguish the candle as they leave the tent.

Outside the sky is still pale, no stars peeking through as yet except Venus. The three-quarter moon hangs low and ghostly in the sky. He knew an old woman once, in the Court but not _of_ it, if you like, who used to say that you want to watch the time between half-moon and full-moon – that’s a powerful time for things to go right. Then there’s the other end of it, between the half-moon and no moon – that’s a powerful time for things to go wrong. Don’t start nothing new then, boy, she’d say. Don’t start nothing new – it’ll get took. Next day she’d be gone, then he’d see her again a few days later, or weeks, or months.

He finds himself trying to picture what the moon had been like when… yeah, no use in that, is there? Even if he could remember that, what would it mean? Crazy old woman, anyway.

_I thought tonight might be Hello, but it was Goodbye for you, wasn’t it?_

_It can’t be both?_

Fuck off. Just fuck off.

“All right, gentlemen,” says Athos, on a murmur that’s somehow still crisp with command. “I have a lantern but I’d rather not use it. There’s a clearing about a mile into the woods there.” He points. “All we have to do is evade everyone between here and there, friend and foe, before full dark is on us.”

“Easy,” he returns.

“That means walking _quietly_ ,” rejoins d’Artagnan.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Everyone knows you’re the noisiest.”

“Hah. We’ll see when…”

“Gentlemen?”

“On it.”

“Good.”

“Besides,” he murmurs to d’Artagnan, with a jerk of the head, “ _he_ ain’t got our natural camouflage.”

D’Artagnan chokes down a shocked snigger, and Athos tuts them genially onward.


	6. Night - The Woods - Part 1

“No, no,” Athos is saying, “you don’t understand. One drink is fine when… when I’m fine, but when I _really_ want a drink is when I _really shouldn’t_ have one.”

“You know,” says d’Artagnan, “that actually makes sense.”

“Thank you.”

“You could just have said: ‘No thanks’,” says Porthos.

The dim light of stars and rising moon through the branches allows him to see Athos frowning. “I did.”

He frowns in his turn. “Oh.” He surveys the canopy. “Yeah, fair enough.” He turns his head towards d’Artagnan. “Just you and me, then.”

“I’m, er, I’m good for the moment.”

“Right. Right you are.”

They’ve all had some of the wine, but this cheap brandy is his alone, it would appear. The others are sitting companionably on a large log, while he’s slid from standing against a nearby tree, somewhat to one side, so he can comfortably – just about – face them, to half-sitting against it. He’s fairly sure that, given another half hour, or another belt of brandy, he’ll be sitting at its foot in the drift of crackling leaves left over from last autumn.

In fact: fuck it. Why not just slide now?

On a partially voiced sigh, he walks himself down the trunk, burying his feet in leaves and settling amid the roots, bottles close to hand.

Of the three of them, it feels like he needs the booze the most. The others audibly, visibly for a while, unwound several notches as they passed into the woods proper, Athos pulling his hat off to make the most of what light was coming in. And while he was glad to get beyond the camp perimeter, this isn’t his natural place. God knows he’s been on enough campaigns and missions in his life, and most of them camping out in various flavours of rural, but it doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it. Woods at night are just spooky, and there are no two ways about it. Both too quiet and too noisy, all at once.

But these are both country boys, aren’t they? They’re drinking in the scent of green and brown and all these shades of things that ain’t bricks or paving or slate or lamp oil or people or… he thinks of Constance’s pillow sack thing with a broad, nostalgic grin for that conjuring of Paris taverns just for him. She’s a good wench. Scary as hell, in the best way, but so good.

Ah, shit. No, nope. No sad. Get a slug in you, boy.

Those two, anyway – their wine is all these rustic airs; their brandy each other’s voices, low and soft; their warmth; their breath. They should be kissing right now, hands all over each other. He’s only ever caught glimpses of it since that demonstration in the mess, and it’s in the way their eyes light on each other; the way _anything_ can be a double-entendre and will get them all messy-eyed and red in the face, especially Athos; the way their hands linger on shoulders and backs, like their too-long gazes. He feels happy and proud that they trust him with this but… he wishes they hadn’t had to trick them into it, that they’d trusted them from the start. And yeah – he’s seen men kicked to shit for this, known of some who died for it, but who’s going to hurt them while he’s around, that’s what he wants to know.

They _could_ be kissing right now, and they would be, if it weren’t for him.

Shit.

“No, that’s _ridiculous!_ ” d’Artagnan is saying, his voice sparkling with amusement. He’s let his maundering carry him off, away from the conversation.

“Huh?”

“Augh! Athos said he was going to…”

“ _Ah_ -ah,” he says, with one gloved finger raised, “I said ‘I might as well’.”

“But it’s completely _ludicrous!_ ” Porthos hears his volume shift, sees the change in the patterns in front of him as he turns his face towards him. “Porthos, he said he wanted–”

“I might as well…”

“That he _might as well_ become a bookseller when he retires.”

“Why not?”

“A bookseller,” repeats Porthos, slowly.

“Yes.”

“A bookseller with killer reflexes and wrists of steel.”

“Perfect for… stacking shelves – see? Books are _heavy_.”

“And the reflexes?”

“Bah!” he bats away the notion with a fine flick of the hand. “I’d have the safest bookshop in Paris.”

“You’d stay in Paris?”

“Where else is there?”

“The whole of the rest of France, for a start.”

“I’ve seen the rest of France,” says Athos, mock-haughty, and brimming with the kind of good humour it took diligent effort of months, nigh-on a year, to tease out of him in the first place. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“Shame,” says d’Artagnan, somewhere between mock-doleful and mock-disapproving.

“Why, what’s your plan?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well, _obviously_ , after I’ve become Captain of the Guard, I’ll retire at a ripe old age… of forty…” Porthos stretches to kick him on the ankle, and, by the sound of it, Athos has bestowed a similarly physical reprimand to his upper body. He writhes. “ _And then_ , much-decorated and rewarded by my King–”

“Obviously,” interjects Athos, dry as dust.

“… I’d set up a farm in the south.”

“But you hated farming,” points out Porthos.

“I didn’t _hate_ it. I just…” And Porthos can hear from how still Athos has gone, his very breathing constrained, that he’s also heard the shift from joking to something else, something too close, too raw. “It wasn’t…”

“It wasn’t for you, yet,” finishes Athos, his voice a rill of comfort against the suddenly chillier night.

“Yes. Huh.”

“So, what’s that Constance going to make of settling in the sticks?” demands Porthos.

“Well, obviously, she’ll follow me, quietly, wherever I go, like a dutiful… wife…” his voice is wobbling, “should…” They’re all laughing by now. “Oh! Oh, sorry, I tried,” he says, pulling off his glove to wipe his eyes.

“A valiant effort,” says Athos, clapping his hand on d’Artagnan’s thigh. D’Artagnan’s head drops forward on a small, fond chuckle.

Looking up, he says to Porthos: “How about you?”

“Huh? How about me what?” He can’t help but notice that Athos’s hand hasn’t left d’Artagnan’s thigh and looks to be shifting slightly, rhythmically, on it.

“Retirement plans?” he reminds him, with a circling of his hand.

“Oh! Oh, yeah. No, not really. S’not something I grew up, you know, seeing. You graduated to beggar, really. If you stayed.” He sniffs, says: “Yeah…” into the silence.

He feels a little ashamed, like he often does when bringing this up, like he’s pushing his childhood in their faces, telling them off for their privilege. Coldly he knows damn well they don’t feel that, or at least not often, but it still gets to him.

“I wondered, sometimes, if that’s where I’d end up,” murmurs Athos.

“Eh?” “Hm?” Their faces swing towards him in unison.

“Sometimes I’d see me thrown out of the regiment – drunk on duty too many times, finally giving in to my urge to punch a Comte in the face, something of that ilk. Being a bravo for a few years after that before it rotted me through – assuming I wasn’t killed by an enthusiastic burglar, or someone carrying a grudge – and I was another dishonourable discharge with my hat in front of me, _wheedling_ : ‘Spare a denier for an old soldier. God bless you, Madame.’”

The others shudder at his shift of voice, wobbly, dry, cracked, and d’Artagnan covers his hand with his own, murmurs: “No, no.” He twists and lays his further hand on Athos’s cheek and Athos leans into it involuntarily.

Porthos frowns down into the leaves, face turned slightly away. “You’ve given a lot of thought to your… _inevitable demise_ ,” he says, attempting lightness again.

“I have a very vivid imagination,” comes the dry reply. “Which makes me a fantastic… Musketeer…” d’Artagnan chuckles lightly, “and a terrible landowner.”

“Yeah, landowners are supposed to _keep_ their land,” he joshes.

“It was an… _imaginative_ solution…” counters Athos. He can’t quite see from this angle, d’Artagnan’s head being in the way, but he can hear the smile.

What he does see, however, is Athos turning his head into d’Artagnan’s caress, movements suggesting him pressing a kiss to his palm. D’Artagnan’s tiny gasp and even tinier hum are all too audible in the forest hush.

Porthos pushes himself to his feet in an untidy crackle, staggering once when it’s clear how uneven the ground is beneath his feet.

Two pairs of bright, concerned eyes come around to him as he begins to brush himself off, saying “Um, yeah, I’ll, um. Yeah.”

They continue to gaze him.

“Go,” he expands, waving his hand. “I’ll, er, go. Yeah.”


	7. Night - The Woods - Part 2

“Porthos…” says Athos on a descending note.

“Don’t go,” says d’Artagnan.

Athos gently brushes his hands off him, stands, takes a slow half-pace towards Porthos. His eyes are difficult to read in this light and he seems to realise this, tipping his head back somewhat so that his expression can be seen more clearly, and to the side a little so it doesn’t look too arrogant.

“No-one wants you to go.”

“You didn’t want me in the firs– fuck, sorry. Sorry. Slipped out.”

“It’s all right. I understand,” he adds, still soft, hands open and relaxed by his sides. And he does, he’s sure of it, and won’t judge him, either, but–

Shit.

Athos shrugs, lightly. “We’ll go back together. It’s fine.”

“Can’t have you blundering about in the woods on your own,” adds d’Artagnan, clearly trying to lighten the mood again.

“But you–”

“It’s _your_ birthday,” says Athos, “what do _you_ want?”

He frowns, hard. Their kindness is too much right now. And he’s not stupid. He knows a lot of this is him responding to what happened earlier, _who he was_ earlier, that right now he wants to be a good man, a generous man, a man with true friends.

His stomach is knotting – a long, cold twist down into his guts, and something of this must be on his face, because d’Artagnan stands immediately, arm starting to stretch towards him with that open-handed gesture he’s seen him offer to a frantic Constance, to his skittish horse, to that exceptionally angry dog that held them at bay in that nameless place just outside Arnac.

And also to the Spaniard.

Closing his eyes, he can feel his breathing getting shallower, a high, thin clatter in his chest in place of the solidity of heartbeat, and his hands are fists, because it’s dark, and the ground’s uneven beneath him, and he’s got nothing to draw a weapon against, and he’d rather have enemies around him right now, he surely would.

Hands on his shoulders and fists. Too many of them. Which means both of them, which means that warmth he feels is their fine concern and he has a sudden choice, taken when the tension breaks and he slumps in a rush. The arms that clasp him immediately, head against his chest, must surely be d’Artagnan’s. He opens his eyes just in time to see Athos asking, with a tilt of head, upturn of arms, and slight raise of eyebrows. He nods untidily, watches him step slowly and smoothly in to the side of d’Artagnan, fold his arms very gently about the pair of them.

Porthos has to close his eyes again in a hurry as he feels the warmth of unshed tears gather, tilts his head back and forces them wide open, a trick from childhood which sometimes works. Does this time. Thank fuck.

“Alright,” he says, roughening his voice so he doesn’t have to hear it wobble, “I’m not dying. Give us some air, yeah?”

Athos steps back immediately, still watching him. He finds it difficult to meet his eyes. D’Artagnan gives him one last unrepentant squeeze before stepping back himself and giving him that famous, awkward, lopsided grin.

Athos is still insistently asking him silent questions, clearer in the rising moonlight: _Are you all right? What can we do? Can we leave you be or is that worse? What do you want?_

The answer to all of these being the same, he shrugs, turning his head away slightly. Athos switches to interrogating d’Artagnan with an eyebrow.

He can’t see it too clearly, but d’Artagnan just slants his head and mouth in opposite directions, then dives for the bottle of wine. He comes up swigging and passes it to Athos’s outstretched hand.

Another choice. Before they can divert themselves handily, he takes a big breath and says, stumbling a little: “Here’s the thing: I don’t know what I want because I don’t know what’s best, and Christ knows I don’t want to be feeling any more guilty than I already do.”

“I see…” says Athos. And Porthos thinks that, clever as he is, and subtle as a box of foxes as he might be, he only knows the half of it. 

“Yeah,” he says, “but, see, I know you want… Like, I know you want time alone. The two of you. Together.”

“Er…”

“But I just can’t. I. I really don’t wanna be alone right now, and–”

“Listen–”

“And I could–” His mouth blunders on without any influence from his brain: “I could stand guard.”

“Well–” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time, after all.”

Athos chokes on the slow mouthful of wine he’s taking. D’Artagnan slaps him on the back hurriedly.

“You mean…” he manages, wiping his beard and passing the bottle on.

“He means, A-ah… other people.”

“Yeah.” He’s glad it’s dark, can feel his face heating, takes a mouthful of wine to cover it. Not that the light seems to make any difference to either of them. The young Gascon seems to be living up to the stories of his people’s abilities to see in the dark, and Athos seems no more impaired than his… than… than d’Artagnan.

The pair of them, from what he can see, look torn. It’s been… you know, not that he keeps track, but it must have been a while for them, what with the recent fighting and all, and it’s been a hell of a day.

“Come on,” he says, a note of pleading making itself apparent, “you need this.”

“And you? What do you need…?” asks Athos. “To help,” he answers himself. “To _be helpful_.”

“Yes! Er, no, not specifically.” He rolls his eyes in search of the right words. Comes up: “Help. But. Yeah.”

Athos, still blank-faced, turns to d’Artagnan, who shrugs, already bouncing up into this new situation and filling it with cheerful ambition. “Why not?”

Athos takes a moment before sharing his thoughts: “I can’t deny,” he says slowly, “that the chance to be safely…” he flicks a half-ironic look Porthos’s way, “ _together_ … is dangerously appealing right now.”

“See?” he says, arms spread wide, aiming for a smile while his heart dances in hard stamps of bootheel, twisting in his chest. He backs, slowly. “Look, I’ll be over here,” he aims a thumb backwards a a knot of old trunk sprawled in the moss that had originally been rejected as a seat on the grounds that it was too far from the others to make conversation easy.

Athos is still frowning, but when d’Artagnan takes him by the hand and tows him back to their log he nearly trips over his own feet to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so… this is another one of those ones that was supposed to be quite short and is turning into an _epic_ …
> 
> Thanks for all your patience and feedback so far! ☺


	8. Night - The Woods - Part 3

He wants to chuckle, chuff out a normal, friendly sound, something like a touch of shoulders, something like reaching out.

He can’t. He can’t trust that it wouldn’t turn into something else, twisting wildly into the dark.

He turns and trudges the last few steps towards the curving wooden seat, slots himself into something that turns out weirdly comfortable, the bark long since softened or stripped by time, the whole smooth and welcoming. He resolves not to think about toadstools and the like. It’ll be fine.

With a bit of a wriggle, it’s almost like sitting in a chair with a curved back and something like arms. He leans sideways a little so that his left elbow can sit on one and rests his eyes in his hand for a bit.

Just a bit.

Shit. Got to open my eyes. What kind of guard sits around with his eyes closed?

_Think they’re going to make you one of theirs, do you?_

_Yeah, as it goes._

_Yeah? You won’t be nothing but the big, black boy from the Court to the likes of them._

_Brother, don’t do this._

_You’ve always got a home here._

_Yeah…_

Across the clearing, they are sitting close, kissing so very, very slowly, from what he can see, then d’Artagnan’s fingers slide from Athos’s cheek, down his neck and to the buttons of his doublet which he starts to undo with the sort of careless, one-handed precision that says more about practice than anything else. Athos’s kisses start to roam – out of sight but surely to the lad’s neck, which he tilts back but doesn’t stop unbuttoning.

Fuck, this is creepy. What am I doing?

And it strikes him all over again that this isn’t a fling, isn’t lust, isn’t them getting something crazy out of their system, isn’t even a convenience thing, because, for Christ’s sake, we’re in the middle of the fucking woods, in the middle of the fucking night, in the middle of a _fucking warzone_ , so it’s…

It’s love. Pure and simple. Well, neither of those, but. Yeah.

And Porthos has never had that – not like that, not someone he’d walk through fire to have like that, not someone he’d risk his soul, his safety for. Sex and affection have always been simple, always been: are we both up for this? Great.

People doing dangerous things for love. He can’t–

_What are you doing, brother?_

_I’m trying to work out what makes people completely lose their shit when they kiss you_

For _fuck’s_ sake. Piss off.

D’Artagnan’s hand has disappeared inside Athos’s doublet now. Athos’s hands are busy on the ties of d’Artagnan’s, as far as he can tell.

He makes a low growl, twists his head so he’s not watching straight on, just… just aware of them, so if… if anything… if there’s danger.

_… loving any of them could have got you killed._

_Any of_ you _._

Seriously: piss off.

A muted clank. He looks over. Well, weapons belts are finally off, then.

He stretches his legs, rolls his shoulders, his neck. Could be a long fucking night at this speed.

Across the clearing, d’Artagnan clambers astride Athos’s lap, at a muttered exclamation from the other. D’Artagnan’s no mean weight, after all. The sound is swiftly muffled, and another breaks from his throat. Clear as day, it’s a moan. Athos, moaning. He takes a moment to wonder at it, shaking his head in bemusement, a small smile breaking over him.

The moan is echoed by another, slightly higher-pitched. There’s the sliding of leather against leather and a low, wet sound, two moans twining in stuttered harmony.

Porthos wonders about humming to himself, finding the pitch they’re roughly hitting together and somehow muffling it with his own.

“Oh _God_ ,” and again that’s Athos, who he’d have thought would be the last one to break silence on something like that, muted though it is. Not that he’s, you know, imagined. Anything. With any of them.

Shit.

This is a terrible fucking idea, he tells himself. But he’s committed, now, to seeing this through, to looking after them, giving them the space they need – the safe space they need.

I could… walk the perimeter.

Nah. Me crunching and rustling about ain’t exactly gonna soothe them, is it?

What do I do – stay here and whistle? Fingers in my ears? That’s not exactly… that’s neither soothing nor safe.

I. _Shit._

Another gasping moan. Could be either of them. A series of rustling sounds that Porthos has to assume are booted feet scuffling for purchase in the dry leaves. And then something slow and, oh. Gloves coming off. Their hands in each other’s hair. Fuck.

And Porthos is now an insistent kind of hard. His mind is feeling too slippery to encompass whether this came on slowly, since they started to kiss, since even before that, or if it’s happened all in a rush at the sound of leather sliding over skin and dropping to the ground.

Couldn’t rightly walk any bloody perimeter now, could I?

He leans back into the embrace of the trunk’s time-worn whorls and scrubs his hands over his face, trying to think, trying not to think, trying not to hear his companions, trying to listen out for them, trying. Trying not.

 _No, no, see, I_ want _to, I just–_

_You want to be released from thinking._

Oh, you dangerous, beautiful bastard.

_God. Yes._

“Oh, fuck it,” he mutters, and fumbles for himself, pressing through breeches that seem far too thick.

There’s a whispering across the clearing and his hand snaps away and fists on the shorn-off branch beside him. Fuck. Some kind of rearranging is going on, and he hears a breathy laugh and what can only be d’Artagnan whispering “Yes, Captain!” followed by a short sigh that somehow sounds very like Athos.

D’Artagnan has disentangled himself from Athos and has moved a pace away, dropped to the crackling ground, reaching up to Athos, drawing him down over him. Athos follows slowly, expression unreadable, but with heat radiating off him as he gets to his knees and starts to lean forward.

“Fuck’s sake, pup,” comes a voice from across the clearing. “he don’t wanna be Captain right now, else he wouldn’t be out here.”

Athos’s head snaps around. He hasn’t heard Porthos’s accent that strong in a good couple of years – vowels mangled and consonants elided or missing altogether: _Faacksaike, ’e dao’wunna_ , vividly remembers Porthos cursing him and Aramis out in a vicious cant as they tried to haul his semi-concussed arse away from a brawl gone bad.

He looks down. D’Artagnan is staring up at him. “Well?”

Athos sighs. “He’s… not wrong.”

“Ah. Sorry.” He sounds, this time, like he means it.

Athos gazes at him a little longer, deliberately lets his arousal start to mount again, feels heat wash through him, murmurs: “Tonight I’m your lover, not your superior officer,” hears his voice rough and warm with it.

“Christ’s bones,” growls d’Artagnan, “come down here and say that first bit again.”

“I’m your lover,” he murmurs to him, dropping his hands wrist-deep into the leaves either side of the other man’s shoulders. “Tonight, I’m your lover,” as d’Artagnan winds one arm under his and up into his hair. “I’m your lover,” as he puts the other around his waist and pulls him down so that they slot together. “Tonight,” he murmurs into the junction of his neck and shoulder, “I’m your lover.”

He rolls his hips against him, hears d’Artagnan’s breath stutter into a moan, feels him thrust back, and soon enough there are no more words between them as they descend into panting groans, grinding together. Athos leans his weight on one hand, scoops the back of d’Artagnan’s head with the other, and pulls him into a ragged kiss. D’Artagnan gives up any attempt at being quiet at this point, and Athos hears the familiar rising tone stepping up with practically each thrust as his lover’s fingers dig into his hips hard enough to bruise, scrape up his back under his opened doublet, push through his hair, combing across his scalp.

Athos drops to both hands as his balance starts to spoil badly, feels d’Artagnan mouth along his neck, nipping and tonguing, hot and messy, and nearly collapses onto him, a wavering groan wrenched from his throat.

“Wait, wai-wait!” pants d’Artagnan. He responds with three almost vicious thrusts before rocking to a standstill.

He feels d’Artagnan grin against his neck then squirm his head away. He pulls his own back to gaze at him.

“I don’t… mmh… don’t want to come in my breeches. And I’m… _fuck…_ ” he bucks, seemingly involuntarily, clenches himself to a trembling stillness, “I’m close. Jesu.”

“So… hm…” he fights to get his own breathing under control, “do you need a, uh, a break before we– stop, stop doing that, I can’t, can’t– _Hnn_. Thank you,” he adds, drily. D’Artagnan grins up at him, entirely unrepentant, trails his fingers slowly up Athos’s belly. He takes a calming breath. “As I was saying,” he murmurs, “do you w–”

A peculiar sound wavers across the clearing. They twist as one to stare towards where Porthos is sitting, but the angle, vegetation, and light confound them. Now that they’re quiet, they can hear his breathing, ragged and half-voiced, edging on thin grunts.

“Shit,” says d’Artagnan, just as Athos asks: “Is he–?”

“What?” D’Artagnan looks up at him.

He looks down. “‘Taking care of business’?”

“What? N– oh. Er, maybe.” A pause. “Not well, I think.”

Athos shakes his head, somewhere between amusement and dismay.

Then the rhythmic nature of the sounds breaks down and they’re just hearing the sounds of a man stifling outright sobs, holding his breath, letting it go, hiccoughing with frustrated shame.

“Shit,” says Athos.

“I’m going to help him,” decides d’Artagnan.

“W–” The words die in his throat. He blinks hard, tries again: “ _What?_ ”

D’Artagnan looks up at him in something like a fond exasperation. “Our brother’s in pain. And much as I’m enjoying the weight of you on me, for the first time in… all warm and hard and close and panting… um…” He shakes his head rapidly. “What was I saying?”

“Our brother in pain,” murmurs Athos, closing his eyes and focusing on his own breathing in an attempt to master himself.

“Right. Hmm. So. So that’s more important.” He strokes down Athos’s flank to get his attention. “Right?”

“Right,” he says, on a kind of descending note. D’Artagnan lets go and all-but pushes him up off him a little. “Wait. _How?_ ”

D’Artagnan frowns. “I’m just going to go talk to him – let him know we’re here for him.” He tuts, pulls a face at him. “Athos,” he explains in a half-whisper, “I’m not exactly going to go over there and… and take him in my mouth to help finish him off!”

His mind shies from the image. “I didn’t…”

“No, but. But, well, anyway, that would definitely have to be, you know, a negotiation between us.”

“Hmm.” Athos fights down something like rising panic, feels the inevitable confusion eddy through his body to his cock. “And if. Hmm. And if we agreed that? What would, um, what would Cons–”

“ _Technically_ ,” says d’Artagnan, “she told me that she still wanted to be with me even if I ‘fucked half the garrison’.”

“Please don’t,” murmurs Athos, eyebrows high, struggling to keep his body under control. Later he will reason to himself that he was riding too close to the edge of climax to be able to distinguish between his feelings, let alone control them, blood running hot and wild, trying to be expressed in any way it would. He strikes out towards something between detached humour and heartfelt advice:

“Just… remember what happened the last time you offered to help a desperate, lonely man in the woods… It went…” he gropes for words.

“Further than I expected, yes, but…”

“‘But’…?”

“I don’t love Porthos the way I loved you then. Let alone now.”

“You–”

“I mean: I love him as my brother-at-arms, obviously. You were always… _more_.”

“You– I–”

“And that night… I wanted you, as well as to help you. As I’d wanted you for… as long as I’d known you, really.” He says it as though this is a reminder, not a revelation.

“I– W–”

“With your blessing, I’ll go.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

D’Artagnan kisses him firmly, squirms out from under him and crackles to his feet. Athos slumps to the ground, rolls to his side, watches him stride over, crunching through the uncertain light, bedecked with leaves like some kind of woodland god, and closes his eyes for a long moment. He feels something like panic as a tight-knotted piece of him loosens – that final lie he’s been telling himself all this time about that night on the road to the Spanish border, sundered and made whole by d’Artagnan’s body, his loving heat. His courage. Jesus.

_You know when they call you an idiot? This is why._

And to think he’d lectured Aramis repeatedly about self-centredness.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan is saying. “Porthos, I’m here, okay? To help. Now, I’m just going to touch your shoulder…”

There is a sharp intake of breath, a sound like stone breaking, and a muffled exclamation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good grief - it’s still going! Probably only a couple more chapters after this one.
> 
> Yes, I do know I’ve said that before, but then it turns out that I define "a couple" as anything between two and four, so…
> 
> Talking of which: if you don’t recognise them – some of the memories ringing in Porthos’s head are from [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695800).


	9. Night - The Woods - Part 4

D’Artagnan feels his eyes go wide, and he tries to work out the best thing to do, wondering briefly if he’d even be able to pull away if Porthos didn’t want to let go of him, wondering if kissing back would bring this more under his control.

“God! Fuck!” Porthos’s eyes are enormous as he jerks away from d’Artagnan. “Shit! Sorry!” knuckles grinding into his forehead and his voice all tear-wobbly.

“No. No, you’re alright,” says d’Artagnan, soothing. “You’re _alright_ , Porthos.” He can hear Athos making his cautious way over, flaps his hand at him to say _back down, I’ve got this_ , all the while trying to duck into Porthos’s eyeline, to show him that everything’s truly okay. He catches Athos out of the corner of his vision tucking himself down onto his haunches.

He squeezes Porthos’s shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice, and it is covered by a pauldron, to be fair, so he follows his instinct to run his palm along his shoulder and onto his neck, just above the mailed collar of his doublet. Porthos turns, teeth bared, on a sound somewhere between groan and whine, lashes out a hand that lands softly enough on his cheek but with a desperate, tugging force to it that makes d’Artagnan rock on his feet.

He wishes he didn’t have such a wide-open face, hopes, a little shamefully, that Porthos is too far gone to have registered the fear that flashed over him, and now he’s locked in Porthos’s eyes, so full of pain and rage and shame that he barely recognises them. “It’s alright,” he says, as softly as he can, feels tension vibrate through his brother’s frame. Then, before his brain can catch up with him: “We know you miss h–”

“Miss!” manages Porthos on another horrible half-sob, and d’Artagnan will have plenty of time later to work it out, but for now he just lends his softest, most patient expression to his brother, nodding, never losing his gaze. “Please,” Porthos adds, and his fingertips tug at him again, giving d’Artagnan, it seems to him, seconds to decide right. On a reflex, his eyes slide to Athos, eyebrows high in the middle, and Athos just nods – up-down –  once, face very sombre: _do what you need to do_.

“Come on then,” says d’Artagnan, and gently cups Porthos’s jaw, closes the distance, and lays his lips on his.

It’s a shock, he won’t lie. It feels strange, but then everything is rapidly becoming the kiss anyway, because Porthos may start gently, but he accelerates just this side of too quickly until all d’Artagnan can do is cling on for the ride. And his own arousal is mounting – how could it not? – and it feels… well, he decides that he’s just going to be confused and aroused and sympathetic, and that’s all there is to it.

Porthos’s hand falls away from his face, and the other is in his hair, and it feels good there, so he lets it be, clinging somewhat to his brother’s shoulder as he surges against him, and then he registers that the surging holds a very particular rhythm which synchronises with the gasps which are becoming moans into his mouth. He feels another rush of confused arousal, is unable to prevent his hand from reflexively slipping down off Porthos’s cheek, but manages to brake it at his chest before it goes any further.

“Come on,” says Athos’s voice, closer, infinitely gentle, like he hasn’t heard it in an age, “we’ve got you.” D’Artagnan dimly registers movement somewhere to his right and behind him, clutches at Porthos’s chest as the man’s tongue slides deep into his mouth, giving a choked-off moan of his own at that, and suddenly the fingers are tightening in his hair and Porthos breaks off the kiss to push his face into the junction between d’Artagnan’s shoulder and chest, moaning hot and wet against him until he spasms on a cry and slumps into him, puffing like a winded horse.

He smooths and soothes him – long strokes down the back of his doublet, along his shoulders, hoping he can feel this, hoping he can hear the tumble of crooning noises he makes as he holds him against his chest, cradling his head, all of these gestures echoing: “It’s okay. We’ve got you.”

Athos, on his knees by Porthos’s feet, hand still on his thigh, expression blank but eyes wide and wandering, is playing everything over in his head on a reflex of mapped-out cause, reaction, effect, positioning, speed; learning, learning, learning. He sees again his brother’s distress, his plea, his lover’s single question, feels again the way the answer tightened and loosened in him, the hope he’d understood right. He sees his lover swept up in that desperate kiss, Porthos’s left hand picking up its abandoned work, the way his own gaze seemed locked to the scene. He couldn’t turn away – feeling a slightly blurry need to look out for both of them. He’d rocked forward onto his knees, reaching out with hand and voice, letting them know, letting his palm slide higher. He runs again over his rationale that Porthos couldn’t be expected to feel the comfort of his touch through those boots, again has no time to wonder at his motives as he feels anew the spasm that swept through all of them, clutch cascading to clutch, moan to moan, Porthos seizing all through his body and spending on a cry.

He refuses to move until he knows that Porthos is all right, or as all right as he can be, blesses d’Artagnan for his continuing care of their hurting brother, searches his soul briefly for jealousy, touches something a little tender that might be… but… well enough; later, maybe. All he’s feeling now is an aching kind of care all through him.

Porthos’s breathing is evening out now and he pulls up from d’Artagnan’s chest, draws in air, open-mouthed, looking up at him, great-eyed, brows up, and it’s right there behind his teeth to apologise on a rush of shame-faced supplication when d’Artagnan seizes him either side of his beard and says: “I swear, brother: if you say ‘sorry’, I’ll kick your arse from here to Le Havre.” He shuts his mouth with a clap and just gazes up at him, nodding once.

“Good,” says d’Artagnan. “Now, do you have a cloth? A handkerchief?”

He screws his face up, nodding again, reaches his right hand across his body to fish it out of his left-hand pocket, and of course it’s one of the ones Constance sent – it fucking would be – and then, as he starts to wipe his left hand and everything else as well as he can, he starts chuckling. It takes him a little while to stop.

Because they’ve all been there for him tonight, when he thought he was alone.

D’Artagnan smiles to hear this – warm and relaxed, no edge of panic to it – and turns to look down, share a fond glance with Athos. Meeting his eyes, he is abruptly reminded of his own unfinished business.

Athos has just put the back of his wrist in his mouth as d’Artagnan’s eyes meet his. He hadn’t meant to lick off the splash that landed on him, but habit took over as everyone relaxed, and now he’s locked in d’Artagnan’s rapidly-heating gaze, a strange-familiar taste on his tongue, tightens his teeth in a deliberate pulse against his own flesh, and he’s standing as gracefully as he can, extending his left hand to d’Artagnan, smiling at Porthos who looks up as he rises, eyes – thank God – peaceful, saying: “If you don’t mind, I need to have a word with d’Artagnan.”

Porthos merely blinks at him, the beginnings of a softly amused smile on him. D’Artagnan, as if in a daze, takes his hand and steps forward, and this kiss is fierce and wanting within moments as they spiral in tight turns across the uneven ground, grappling and groaning until d’Artagnan takes a step back and, eyes wild and sly in the moonlight, seizes Athos to bear him to the ground. Laughing, Athos tilts his head back, and d’Artagnan rolls them until he’s on top of him, all the hard lengths of him pressing hot and urgent.

Athos laugh sloughs off him, breathing heavy, frantic with desire as he lifts his head to capture d’Artagnan’s mouth while his lover presses into him again, starts to rock, and Christ, _Christ_ , he’s so close already, _fuck_ , and he’s scrabbling between them to undo their points, which is proving as difficult from this position as it is compelling. D’Artagnan lifts himself up so that Athos can pull his breeches down, squirm his own open and down just enough, tearing the front of their shirts upwards so that–

Ah, God, he’s shuddering all through as d’Artagnan lowers himself again, and they’re rocking fast, bare flesh together for the first time in forever, and there’s an insistent tree root beneath him, and these leaves are scratching his exposed skin, and one of his legs is canted out of true in a way he’ll regret later, and _right now_ he doesn’t care, doesn’t care, fuck, _fuck!_

D’Artagnan feels his cock sliding on Athos’s belly, alongside his rock-hard, gunmetal-hot shaft, thinks he has rarely felt anything so beautiful, the texture of him slick and tight against him, knows he wants to feel him come, and come _now_. He rejects his earlier notion of grasping their cocks together on the grounds that that’s way too awkward in this position, thinks of a gift he’s yet to give and, feeling something fierce burst over him, bends his arms so that he can press closer, increase the friction, kiss Athos hard, all tongue and moan.

Athos, eyes falling shut, gasping, feels d’Artagnan’s mouth shift within the kiss to capture his lower lip, then his teeth catch, harder than usual, pressing and pressing, and he knows he’s making the most obscene sounds now, can’t stop himself, ambushed as the sensation rushes through him on a wave of ice-hot pleasure, bucking upwards, fingers clawing at his lover’s sides. And then, when d’Artagnan moves to bite just as hard into his neck, he forgets everything, thrashing and thrusting, utterly subsumed, hot all through, coming on a yell, feeling d’Artagnan throb and spurt alongside him, groan deep in his chest and finish on a whimper pressed to his neck, collapsing full weight on him.

They lie for a while, breath hard, voiced on a series of _hmm_ s and _ahh_ s as they slow, then chuckle, then start to stir, discomfort making itself increasingly emphatically known.

D’Artagnan gets his hands under him, kisses him, and pushes up, groaning lightly. Athos fumbles for his own handkerchief as chill strikes across every damp part of his belly. And sides. And crotch.

“Simply delightful,” he mutters, scrubbing.

D’Artagnan heaves himself over and props himself to one side. “Yes, you are.”

“Hah!” But he can’t seem to prevent the soft, pleased smile welling through him. He twists his head. “You should– Ah. Good.” D’Artagnan is slowly, methodically cleaning himself up.

“To be fair,” he replies, “I think more got on you than… What?” He has looked up to see Athos gazing at him, mouth a little slack.

Athos feels himself, of all things, blush. “I was…” he says, aiming for airy and missing by yards, “thinking about cleaning you off with my tongue and, well…”

D’Artagnan collapses with a groan to his back. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Only a little.”

“Hah!”

“I hate to say this, gents,” comes a voice to their right, “I truly do, but we should probably get moving.”


	10. Night - There and Back Again

“Ugh,” says d’Artagnan, letting the back of his head thunk against the ground, even as he starts to tuck himself away and redo his points.

Athos folds his handkerchief as best he can to minimise anything… then just shoves it in his pocket. He arches his back, fighting off flashbacks, biting any change of expression back hard as he pulls his breeches back up and refastens them.

A large hand appears above him and he seizes on it, pulling himself up. Porthos lets go and takes a half-step back. Athos, tucking his shirt in, takes a moment to deliberately meet his eyes. They gaze at each other for a moment, then Athos, with a slight lift of lips, nods. Porthos nods back and he smiles a little broader.

He reaches out and slaps him lightly on the upper arm. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“So, what’s the rush?” asks d’Artagnan from behind him, voice climbing awkwardly as he makes his way to his feet.

Porthos scrunches his face into something rueful. “See, it might be fine but, well, between us we’ve made a fair amount of noise.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so anyone in earshot – friend or foe – might come and get nosy.”

“Shit.”

“Quite,” says Athos. “Thanks. Er.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Weapons,” he says to d’Artagnan.

“On it.”

They strap themselves in as they walk to where they entered the clearing, shaking out and tugging on gloves. D’Artagnan nudges shoulders with Athos and smiles softly. He is powerless against the answering smile, tucks his expression behind his hat, fooling no-one.

“Shit,” says Porthos, quiet and fast.

“Hm?”

“Bottle.”

“Ah. Yes. We’ll wait,” he adds.

Porthos just nods, dives back to pick up the brandy from the foot of the tree.

“Wine?”

“Finished.”

“Ah.”

“Go on, then.”

On they go, the high and mostly cloudless moonlight assisting even the least woodwise of them. They’re reaching the edge of the woods when Porthos murmurs: “Hold up.”

“Hm?”

“You, er. The pair of you. You’re…”

Athos turns an alarmed gaze on him. He grinds to a halt. Athos pushes his head forward, says: “What?” slowly on a raise of eyebrows.

“Leaves.”

“Oh. Oh!” D’Artagnan scans him up and down. “He’s right.”

“’Course I’m right!”

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes, steps towards Athos. “May I?”

Athos pulls his hat off, shakes his hair rapidly, ruffling his fingers through it, heartbeat kicking up a little. “Of course. If I might…?”

“Hm.”

D’Artagnan diligently plucks the remaining visible fragments of leaves, moss, and twigs from Athos’s hair, brushes him down as best he can, back and front, earning a grunt for his vigor. Athos returns the favour, clamping down on the urge to cup him hard in front, push his back into a tree trunk and kiss him ragged. His own particular vigor around d’Artagnan’s buttocks earns him a “Hey!” which he rewards with a dark grin.

“If we’re ready anytime soon?” asks Porthos, and they both smother sniggers and offer him contrite expressions around unrepentantly sparkling eyes. “Enough of that,” he mutters, gruffly.

Athos sighs and sags. “Yes, it’s time.”

“For you to be Captain again?”

“Yes.”

“Porthos,” says d’Artagnan, “if you don’t, um, mind, we have a kind of, er, a kind of tradition. For saying goodbye.” At his cautious change in expression, his eyes widen and his hands flail a little. “For the pair of us,” he gestures between him and Athos, “that is, um.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. For… for goodbyes, before you, er, return to…”

“Public business,” completes Athos, studiously neutral, a little dry.

“I’ll stand watch while you snog, then.”

“Great. Thanks,” says d’Artagnan who, Athos is mildly delighted to see, is embarrassed again.

“Delicious,” he murmurs to him as he draws close, with that deliberate curve to his voice he’s not used for a while, as Porthos ostentatiously turns his back to gaze out at the camp, arms crossed.

“Bastard,” murmurs d’Artagnan in his ear, nipping it, radiating heat. He drapes his arms around Athos’s neck. “Where’s my kiss?”

“Here.”

D’Artagnan hums with pleasure against him and Athos is astonished to find how much physical desire is still available to him. Thinks that, were they somewhere safe and proof against sound, they could very well be stoking themselves for a second round by now.

D’Artagnan draws back a fraction with a small sound of surprise and something like speculation. He smiles against Athos, who feels himself close to blushing again, wondering at this shift in himself before cocking a cool look at his lover, who leans back, surveying him in the dappled moonlight of the wood’s edge and looking sarcastically unconvinced.

“Oh my,” is all he says, drawling in what appears to be a mild impersonation before leaning in to give him another kiss. Athos deepens it deliberately fast to hear him gasp, and he retaliates with another press of teeth that leaves him breathless in turn.

Porthos clears his throat and they lean their foreheads together. Athos runs one gloved thumb down d’Artagnan’s cheek from the delicate curve of bone next to his eye down to strum his jaw once and step back. D’Artagnan places the flat of his right hand in the centre of Athos’s chest and he echoes the gesture. After far too short a time they nod, then step back.

Athos replaces his hat and straightens, shakes his shoulders, clears his own throat. Porthos turns on a lift of eyebrow, nods solemnly at what he sees, and Athos, nodding back, leads them out of the wood.

“Um,” says Porthos, and he looks back to see him wincing and reaching forward to him.

“What?”

“Mmh. Maybe nothing. May I?” He’s gesturing at Athos’s shoulder and he, thinking of forest detritus, nods, tilts his head to one side.

There’s a slight intake of breath from d’Artagnan as Porthos’s fingers, gentle and deft, lift his hair without, somehow, touching his skin.

“What…? Oh. Ah…” The last on a descending note.

“Yeah,” says Porthos, eyes narrowing briefly and letting his hair go.

“Right.”

“Maybe wear a scarf tomorrow?” suggests d’Artagnan, faces all slants of awkward sympathy.

He sighs. “Maybe I’ll just wear my cuirass all day instead…” He rolls his eyes lightly, shakes his head slowly on a difficult smile. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

They nod, tugging their faces back into neutrality as he turns and they set off the mildly devious way they came.

As Athos pulls duty back onto himself like a cloak, like high-necked body armour, d’Artagnan is thinking about a very short letter he might send, if he doesn’t mind the vengeance his wife will surely send him in return. Porthos, on the other hand, is thinking about how a body might measure friendship in the days and weeks to come, especially as a man scrupulous about how he pays his debts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, yeah. My notes for this section started like this:
>
>> "During the Spanish War – d’Artagnan and Athos trying to find some time/ space to be alone (out in the woods). Porthos a bit mopey and angry and sad (it’s his birthday); they invite him along out of sheer desperation. "We were just, er, going for a walk." He encourages them to be intimate ("Look, I don’t mind, and you might as well have someone to guard you.") and… I don’t know whether he masturbates, with their encouragement/ consent, or there’s some element of joining in. Bah. Not sure yet. Mmh."   
> 
> 
> So _don’t ask me_ where a Spanish spy came from along with the extra metric fuckton of angst and confused arousal (plus bonus lovebite).
> 
> The next week or so is going to be a Fun Time*, so I suspect I will be updating the next section somewhat slowly.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *i.e. very little fun _at all_

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t believe it’s made explicitly clear where the action takes place in s3e1, but research indicates that Douai (and the real Pinon, for that matter) is close to the border between modern-day France and Belgium. Significant portions of the Franco-Spanish War in the Seventeenth Century took place on Flemish land, so I've chosen to go with that. Anyone who would like to correct me is very welcome. Cite your sources, please.


End file.
